


Oh Sweetheart

by our_black_heart



Series: Circles [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Depersonalization, Dissociative Identity Disorder, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7336207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/our_black_heart/pseuds/our_black_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is learning how to cope with his disassociation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really think there are any trigger warnings, if you find one please let me know.

Bucky wakes with a startle at 3:02 A.M. He had an odd sensation of falling and it shocked him out of sleep. A light sheen of sweat was already starting to gather around his hairline and in the slope of his lower back. He hated summer, almost as much as he hated winter. This heat was tolerable during the day, but during the night when both he and Steve needed to sleep with a thin blanket on in order to feel safe, the hot weather was suffocating.

There was a whisper of a headache pulsing at the front of his skull, he tapped at it with his flesh middle and ring finger hoping that it would suppress the inevitable migraine. Knowing his own luck, he wouldn’t bet on it, but he was a pretty hopeful guy for all that he’d been through. Maybe today was finally his lucky day. He certainly thought so when he heard the new coffee maker stutter to a start on a fresh pot, it had been set up, the timer read 3:10 A.M. He doesn’t remember setting it up himself, so Steve was probably the hand in the works here. He lets his mind linger on the fact that Steve knows his current sleeping habits and it almost makes his burgeoning headache dwindle down into a semi-pleasant buzz. He associates Steve with ASMR, because that usually provokes a nice little buzz in his head that is ultimately what puts him to sleep every night. But his head is as stubborn as he is, because the headache simmers for a slightly euphoric second before returning much more intensely than it had existed before. He remembers the breathing technique that Steve keeps insisting is a life saver, he tries it and remembers that he and Steve are totally different. He doesn’t cope the same ways that Steve does therefore his coping mechanisms are obviously much different.

An irritating and yet totally cathartic beeping noise taps him out of his thoughts and into reality. He’s usually warry of any noise that he thinks would wake Steve, but this one is too mundane, too domestic to stir him awake. The inky liquid percolates for a few more seconds before the last godly drops are pouring into the pot. He breathes like he means it now. Inhaling the scent that encompasses the entire apartment and that he hopes won’t intrude on whatever dream Steve is having. He picks up the pot with his metal hand, holding it as tenderly as he can, because coffee isn’t something to be aggressive towards. It is something to worship. He pulls the pot against his lips, not bothering with a cup. He’s going to drink the whole thing black and bitter anyways, no need for formalities. In his excitement the coffee dribbles down his chin, he wipes it with the back of his right hand and his skin prickles with the forgotten heat of the coffee. The burn on his hand is pink and raw, sensitive and simultaneously angry.

That’s when the memory hits. He’s harshly pulled back into a time where Steve was not as big as the Steve he encounters now on a daily basis, the poor kid is coughing and wheezing. The tiny apartment smells of illness and expensive medication, it smells of poverty and exhaustion. Two things that he doesn’t really deal with anymore, but it all still feels too familiar. He’s so lost in worry that he doesn’t process the fact that the steaming hot tea he’s just poured into the only tea cup they have is sloshing all over the place. His hand is shaking with anxiety as he watches Steve cough up phlegm’s, he thinks Steve might die. When his senses return, his hand is in severe pain. There is hot tea being soaked up by the skin on his hand and it gets hotter by the second. He shouts and flaps his hand around, the cracked tea cup hits the ground and shatters into an unfixable mess of shards. It’s so loud he thinks it might wake Steve, but the Steve that he’s looking at right now is already awake. He has deep purple indentations under his eyes and a bright red nose. Bucky is momentarily confused, until he’s being pulled out of the memory by strong arms around his waist. When he comes back to reality, Steve is breathing heavily against his neck. Steve’s arms are tightly wrapped around Bucky’s waist and the coffee pot that he’d been holding is now at least a hundred sparkly pieces on their shiny new tile. Steve is pressing his whole face against the back of Bucky’s neck on any patch of skin that he can rub against and Bucky is only just starting to realize what is happening. He exhales deeply and waningly leans into Steve.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, honey.”

“Were you drinking out of the pot again, Buck?” Bucky smiles dopily, because Steve is the only person that could make this type of situation into a domestic dispute about sanitation.

“I was going to grab a cup, promise!”

“I don’t believe you for a second.”

“Look at you, getting smart on me.” Steve snorts then promptly chuckles.

“Did you remember something?” Bucky nods, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t trust himself to talk about how much he didn’t want Steve to die.

“I’m going to process this one for a while, okay? It’s just a hard one to feel right now and I want to think about it a little more.” Steve accepts by putting his lips against Bucky’s neck. Soft and understanding, things Bucky hasn’t gotten used to just yet. He closes his eyes and puts his hands over Steve’s on his own stomach. They stand there with Steve’s chin resting on Bucky’s shoulder until they both get tired of standing. Bucky makes a half assed attempt to clean up the glass, but both he and Steve know that it won’t get done until the afternoon when they’ve both properly woken up.

“You want more coffee?”

“Nah, not right now.” He takes Steve to bed by the hand, leading him into their room and cuddling under the sheet they’re using to protect them against the monsters that lurk in the dark.

“It’s gotten easier, y’know?”

“What has, sweetheart?”

“Forgetting who I was has gotten easier, because I’m discovering who I am _now_ with _you_.”

“I like you right now.” Steve’s words light up the cavity of Bucky’s chest and he smiles in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate all feedback, especially since this is part of a series and I'm constantly considering ending it where it is. Thanks for reading!


End file.
